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which was unusual.

      ‘So, tell me about your other dates,’ she said, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘What went wrong?’

      ‘Nothing.’ He took a deep breath and let his face relax out of his smile. ‘But it’s a serious business, finding a wife. I’m not going to trot off down the aisle with just anyone.’

      She put her knife and fork down and stared at her salad for a few seconds. ‘You’re really looking for a wife on an Internet dating site?’

      Why did his dates seem to find that so hard to believe? After all, the site in question was Blinddatebrides.com. It kind of gave the game away.

      ‘Aren’t you looking for a husband?’

      Grace shook her head hard to loosen her hairdo a little.

      ‘What are you looking for, then? Love? A soulmate?’

      She dropped her chin and gave him an Are you serious? look from under her lashes.

      Good. She didn’t believe in those things either.

      ‘I’m glad we’re on the same wavelength,’ he said before taking a sip of wine.

      Grace pursed her lips. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe in those things. Just that I’m not expecting to find them at Blinddatebrides.com. Nor do I want to. I mean, the whole Romeo and Juliet, all-consuming passion thing really only works for teenagers, don’t you think?’

      He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a non-committal way. He wasn’t sure what this ‘in love’ thing was. Oh, he’d thought he’d found it once, but it had turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. What people sang about in love songs or wept over at the cinema wasn’t real. It was all an illusion—one he bought into about as much as he had the chick with the AK47.

      His parents didn’t do all that hearts and flowers nonsense and they had been perfectly happy for almost fifty years. If it could work for them, it could work for him.

      The evening passed quickly. Too quickly.

      As Noah dug into his dessert, he decided he’d seen enough of Grace to know she wasn’t what Harry termed a ‘WAG wannabe’in disguise—definitely not a gold-digger! There was a recital at one of the local arts centres next week that he’d planned on going to, and he was going to ask Grace if she’d like to go with him.

      He cleared his throat. ‘Grace?’

      She looked up at him, a chocolate-dipped spoon half in her mouth. Slowly, and while Noah’s mouth began to water, she pulled it out, sucking the last of the rich brown mousse off.

      ‘Do you want some?’ she asked, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly smudged with chocolate. Noah meant to shake his head, but it didn’t seem to want to move.

      ‘Uh-huh,’ he heard himself say.

      ‘It is rather divine,’ she said, her eyes doing her trademark sparkle.

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      Great. He’d won awards for his command of the English language and all he could do at present was grunt like a caveman. He watched as she carefully dipped the long spoon into her dessert and pulled out a bulging dollop of creamy chocolate mousse.

      As she fed him the mousse, she unconsciously licked her lips. Noah felt a kick of desire so hard it almost rocked him out of his chair. His voice was horribly hoarse when he opened his mouth to speak. ‘Grace…?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Um…’ Just like that, his brain emptied. Words circled round, but the ability to string them into coherent sentences had just vanished. He grabbed at a few of the nearest phrases in desperation. ‘Concerts!’ he blurted. ‘Do you like live music?’

      Grace’s face lit up. ‘I love live music!’

      It was only as his heart rate started to slow, pounding heavily in his temples, that he realised it had been racing for the last couple of minutes. He swallowed, which really wasn’t a good idea, because he tasted the chocolate mousse again and his pulse did a U-turn.

      ‘In fact, I was only at a concert a few days ago,’ Grace said, before turning her attention back to her dessert.

      ‘Really?’

      She nodded and swallowed. ‘I saw this great band up in London recently—The Hover Cats—have you heard of them?’

      He shook his head.

      ‘I don’t expect many of your colleagues share your passion, do they?’

      She looked puzzled. ‘Why not? I know jazz and easy listening are popular in cafés, but that’s not all we listen to. Aren’t you being just a little bit narrow-minded?’

      For the second time that evening, Noah felt as if he were under interrogation. ‘But I thought you said you were a—’

      ‘A barista,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘I work in The Coffee Bean further up the High Street.’

      If she’d jumped up on the table and started doing the can-can, Noah couldn’t have been more shocked. She had such potential. And all at once he was intrigued, as he often was when he met someone who defied his expectations. What had led her to make those choices? Grace had the personality and energy to do anything she wanted. His brain whirred off, analysing her as if she were a character in a book.

      She’d been sitting in silence as he’d absorbed the information, but now she flicked a glance at the door and started talking very fast. ‘Talking of coffee, I don’t really feel like having one—busman’s holiday and all that. Do you mind if we call it a night?’

      She reached for her handbag and started to push back her seat. For the first time all evening, the confidence, the pizzazz drained away. She glanced at him for a mere moment as she smoothed down her skirt and he saw a look of both hardness and vulnerability on her face.

      ‘Grace, I’m sorry. In no way do I—’ He reached for her hand. ‘Don’t go.’

      She shook her head. ‘You know what, Noah. This really isn’t going to work out. I think I should just leave.’ And, with that, she nimbly eased herself out of her chair and headed for the coat rack.

      Known for his command of the English language? Hah.

      Well, if Grace was leaving, so was he. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, left more than enough twenty pound notes on the table to cover the bill and darted after her.

      Grace didn’t even remember putting her coat on. It was only as the chilly night air hit her face that her brain whirred into action. Without making a conscious decision, she turned right and hurried down Vinehurst High Street as fast as the stupid high heels she’d stolen out the bottom of Daisy’s wardrobe would let her.

      ‘Grace!’

      She bit the tip of her tongue between her teeth, shook her head and just kept walking. Every time she told people what she did for a living she got the same reaction, the same look. The one that said, why wasn’t she busy saving lives on the operating table or running a million-pound Internet business she’d started in her front room like other women of her generation?

      Because she hadn’t been prepared to sacrifice time with Daisy to build a career, that was why. Daisy had already lost one parent and she didn’t need the other to become a dim and distant memory while childminders did all the hands-on stuff. So Grace had taken a job that let her fit her hours round the school day and didn’t require evening shifts.

      The owner of the coffee shop was Aunt Caroline—or Caz, as she liked to be called. She was really Rob’s aunt, but had welcomed Grace into the family with open arms and had been a lifesaver when he’d died, taking Grace under her wing and letting her rent the upstairs flat. Grace’s parents had moved to the West Country when she’d got married and there had been no one close by to turn to. Her parents had begged her to move in with them, but she’d refused—too

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